


A matter of perspective

by stormwreath



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Sculpture, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:19:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwreath/pseuds/stormwreath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her best friend drags a young Elven sculptress to a party she's really not sure she wants to attend; but while she's there, she ends up inventing an entirely new theory of Art. Oh, and she meets a guy she likes too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A matter of perspective

Nerdanel considered the half-finished block of marble with speculative eyes. It wasn't coming right yet, and she wasn't sure why. The picture had been clear in her mind before she started, and her hands had guided the chisel with the precision and accuracy she took for granted; but the statue was still wrong, in some way she couldn't place.

She was making an image of one of the Mánir, the air spirits who served Lord Manwë. The sylph was springing up into the sky, unfolding his gleaming white feathery wings behind him - or he would. At the moment he seemed to be half-buried in rock, the raw stone that Nerdanel's tools had not yet begun to shape reaching up to his waist and blending seamlessly into his half-formed wings. The effect was oddly disturbing, yet compelling.

Some Elven sculptors were slow and painstaking, considering each careful stroke of the chisel with deliberation. Telperion and Laurelin might flower and wane and blossom again two or three times before the next sliver of stone hit the ground. That wasn't how Nerdanel worked.

Oh, she'd think about her next project for long enough: years, sometimes, as she searched for inspiration and studied her proposed subject from every possible light and angle. The way she'd capture their likeness in stone was planned out in her imagination long before she ever set metal blade to rock. But once she was ready - once she'd selected the stone, prepared her tools, studied her model one last time - she turned into a whirlwind of energy.

People who knew her only as the quiet, somewhat diffident Elf-maiden who rarely spoke in company were often shocked when they visited her studio, heard the ringing hammer blows, saw the dust and chips of stone flying from the point of her chisel as the sculpture took form beneath her hands. When she worked, a fire of passion and energy woke within her that few had ever suspected lay dormant there. There was no clumsiness of haste: every blow she struck was precise and measured with perfect accuracy; but sometimes it seemed that she did not even pause for breath between each stroke of the hammer.

But not this time. This time, the fire wouldn't come. The air spirit was still enmeshed in the rock, and Nerdanel's hand slowed, then stopped, then hung passive by her side. It wasn't that she'd made any mistakes, she thought. She was just no longer sure this was the statue she wanted to be making. Or maybe the statue itself wanted to become something different?

At that moment she heard noise behind her; clattering footsteps, someone laughing, and someone else muttering what sounded like a complaint. Nerdanel sighed, then schooled her features into her trademark patient expression. A minute or two later three young Elf-women burst into the room, their ornate dresses a riot of rich colour and subtle scents and (very expensive) rustling silk and lace. Nerdanel smiled politely.

"There you are! I told you she'd be here!"

"I don't know why we had to trail out all the way here. We're going to be late."

"Late for what?" asked Nerdanel.

The blond-haired woman in the blue dress, whose name was Arawendë, rolled her eyes. "I told you she'd have forgotten, Lissiel. We should just leave her to her..." she waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the unfinished sculpture, "Whatever _that_ peculiar thing is meant to be."

Nerdanel's eyes narrowed and she took a deep breath - but before she could say anything Lissiel, the dark-haired Elf in green who'd spoken first, smiled at her apologetically.

"Don't mind her. Look, it's okay if you're busy, but you did say you'd come with us. To the party, remember? The Prince's birthday party?"

"Oh! Yes, of course. Sorry, I'd lost track of time" She gave an answering smile of thanks. Lissiel was one of the few people she counted as a real friend... although her choice of companions was one thing Nerdanel definitely faulted her for. "What hour is it?"

The third Elf, who'd not spoken yet - Vilyië was her name - was standing at the window looking out. Without bothering to turn around she said, "Laurelin's fourth is ending soon. We have two hours to get there." Her tone implied strongly that only a fool would not have known this already, and that it was a matter of supreme indifference to her whether Nerdanel came or not.

From the way Arawendë was tapping her foot, it wasn't a matter of indifference to her. She quite clearly would prefer to leave Nerdanel behind.

Nerdanel very carefully put down the chisel with its long steel blade - sharp and heavy enough to cleave stone - onto her worktop. She laid the hammer next to it. Then she smiled brightly at the three of them and said, "Just give me a moment, and I'll come with you."

As she stepped through the connecting door she distinctly heard Arawendë groaning under her breath. This almost inspired Nerdanel to deliberately spin out how long she would spend before returning - maybe even go for a bath, put up her hair, spend half an hour picking out a dress; make them wait. But no. That wouldn't be fair to Lissiel - and also, it was a pretty sure thing that Arawendë and Vilyië wouldn't bother waiting, which would rather spoil the revenge.

Instead she pulled off her leather apron, shook the stone-dust off her clothes, and looked at herself in the mirror. Nobody would ever call her pretty, and she didn't have the time to waste in artfully applying make-up to try and improve on nature. She wasn't even sure there was any point to bothering, although Lissiel kept on urging her to try it and Nerdanel didn't like to tell her friend 'no'. But for now, the best she could do was quickly wash her face from the silver ewer that stood on the table under the mirror, and then drag a comb through her hair. Done.

As she stepped back into the studio, Arawendë clicked her tongue in disdain and Vilyië muttered quietly - but not too quietly for Elven hearing, " _That's_ what she's wearing?" Even Lissiel's smile was a trifle forced, but genuine nevertheless.

"Ready? Come on then, it's a long walk."

"I'm ready." The three others trooped out of the room, and Nerdanel followed. As she turned to close the door she looked back at the half-finished statue. The air spirit was trapped in the rock, struggling to break free, its wings weighted down by stone. Nerdanel gave it an ironic wave of sympathy and fellow-feeling, then followed her companions down the stairs.

 

oo000oo

 

It was a warm late afternoon in Tirion as Laurelin's golden light slowly faded towards dusk. The four Elf-women strolled slowly through the crystal-paved streets - it was indeed a long walk, and none of Nerdanel's companions wanted to risk spoiling their finery by any hint of exertion before they arrived at the palace. To Nerdanel - who often went hiking alone through the foothills of the Pelóri or into the depths of Lord Oromë's forests when she was waiting for her next inspiration to strike - the pace seemed unreasonably slow. Still, she resisted the temptation to stride out ahead and leave the others behind.

That was very noble of her, she thought - though the truth was, she was also unwilling to give Arawendë and Vilyië the opportunity to talk about her. She'd already seen them whispering and giggling to each other when they thought she wasn't looking, and overheard a few scraps of conversation - "looks like a bricklayer" and "those weird statues" and "too plain to get a real man, so she makes her own". Nerdanel had heard such words before. Where once they might have driven her to tears or to rage, now they bounced off her skin like chips of stone falling on her workshop floor.

Walking beside her, Lissiel looked apologetic. She could hear them too, but she didn't say anything.

That part could still make Nerdanel angry sometimes, that Lissiel wouldn't come to her defence or stand up to them. Lissiel wanted to be friends with everybody, which was no doubt a noble aspiration - but did mean she often ended up sitting on the fence and refusing to take sides in arguments. That was very frustrating when you were the one arguing. But even here, begrudgingly, Nerdanel understood her friend's position.

 Arawendë was _important_. Her mother was a personal handmaiden to Queen Indis herself, and Arawendë was a frequent visitor to the King's House. That's how she'd secured the invitations to this party - the most prestigious social event of the year, perhaps even of the age. It wasn't often that a king's son celebrated his coming-of-age. Lissiel's own parents were not nearly so high-ranking, but as Arawendë's friend she could bask in reflected glory.

And somehow, Lissiel had persuaded Arawendë to give the spare ticket to Nerdanel, to make up the foursome. Nerdanel wasn't sure she actually wanted it, but Lissiel had been so happy, so expectant, that Nerdanel hadn't had the heart to refuse. It wasn't that she didn't feel excitement stirring in her own chest when she thought of visiting the palace for the first time - King Finwë was reputed to have a remarkable art collection, and Nerdanel would love to spend a happy hour or six browsing through it. But it was unlikely to be that sort of evening. It was a party: that meant dancing and music and feasting and wine, and conversation. Lots of polite, fashionable conversation, of the type that her three companions - yes, regrettably, even Lissiel - found fascinating, but which after ten minutes would have Nerdanel staring out of the window and longing to escape.

Of course, as far as her three companions were concerned, that wasn't the main attraction of the evening. Baulked of their chance to dissect Nerdanel's many flaws by her presence within earshot, Arawendë and Vilyië had turned their attention instead to a subject even closer to their hearts: boys. Or to be more specific, their chances of finding a husband at this gathering of Tirion's social elite. Maybe even - Arawendë's pale Vanyarin complexion flushed pink as her voice rose half an octave - maybe even the Prince himself might notice them. He was reputed to be very handsome and dashing, and bold and strong-willed, and artistic and creative too, and of course now he'd come of age he was in urgent need of a wife. 

"I've heard he's something of a scholar," said Vilyië, interrupting Arawendë's gushing monologue. Her tone sounded slightly dubious, as if this were a foible to be excused in an otherwise-worthy potential husband. To Nerdanel, it was frankly the only thing she'd ever heard said to Prince Fëanor's credit. He otherwise sounded frightful, a perfect paragon of all the masculine virtues that would make him an ideal spouse to someone like Arawendë - and serve them both right!

She couldn't quite keep a malicious grin off her features at the thought, and Lissiel saw it and quirked an eyebrow. Nerdanel said nothing, merely inclined her head imperceptibly in the direction of the other two women and mouthed the word 'Later'. Lissiel grinned back in response. Like her other two companions, she often found Nerdanel rather, well, strange; even incomprehensible at times. But she'd got to know her well enough to learn that under that diffident exterior was a keenly observant intelligence and a wicked sense of humour. A few barbed comments could sometimes reduce Lissiel to tears of helpless laughter.

It was just a pity such moments were so few; Nerdanel kept to herself too much. This party was a good idea, thought Lissiel. Those statues are all very well, and I know she likes making them, but it will do her good to act like a normal girl for an evening. Out loud she said, "I'm not aiming my sights at the Prince, not that high; but there'll be plenty of, well, interesting people at the party. Interesting male people, of the single variety, if you know what I mean." She winked at Nerdanel.

Nerdanel gave her a smile, then without thinking blurted out, "You should aim at the Prince, Lissiel. It's why you were invited."

"What?" What?" What?" Three voices rang out as one, as the other two ceased their own conversation to challenge what Nerdanel just said. She felt like kicking herself.

"I, er, didn't mean it like that. I..."

"Lissiel isn't invited for Prince Fëanor. (No offence, sweetie.) She's here because I invited her as my guest! And the only reason you're even here is because Lissiel insisted. I can't imagine why she asked you, or why you came."

Vilyië interrupted in scornful tones, "It's not like the Prince will even notice *her*, dressed in those peasant overalls with dirt in her hair."

Nerdanel flushed darkly. Her personal style of clothing was an entirely sensible choice that she wasn't ashamed of. It was eminently practical for working in the forge, or hiking through the mountains, or lugging big chunks of stone around her workshop... It was perhaps not, a nagging voice whispered in her mind, the best choice for attending a royal ball at the palace in honour of the King's eldest son. She pushed the thought back down angrily.

"My hair isn't dirty. That's its natural colour." It was a feeble response; she knew it even as she said it: but if she told these two what she really wanted them to hear, there'd be nothing left of them but scorchmarks on the opposite wall. Keep your temper in check. That's what her father had taught her, ever since she was old enough to help him in the forge. Anger makes you careless. When you're dealing with fire and molten steel, a moment's carelessness will kill.

Nerdanel forced her hands to unclench from fists, and made her tone as light as she could. "I only meant that this party is for Prince Fëanor to meet his people, and yes, maybe meet someone he'll choose to marry. It could be any of the ladies at court. I didn't mean anyone in particular, just all of us collectively."

"Hmph. I'm not sure 'all of us' includes you." Despite the words, Arawendë seemed mollified; her cruelty was reflexive rather than focussed. She sniffed, then turned back to Vilyië and resumed her conversation. Nerdanel no longer interested her; the dismissal was plain.

 

oo000oo

 

"Wait! Slow down!"

Nerdanel turned in surprise as she heard Lissiel's voice, then blushed a little. Somehow since the conversation ended, without meaning to, she'd outpaced the whole group. The expression "stalking off" sprang to mind, except that they were still all heading to the same destination. But Lissiel was trotting after her, holding up her long skirts in both hands regardless of appearances, trying to catch her up. Touched, Nerdanel waited, then matched her pace to her friend's.

"Are you sure you want to come and talk to me? Won't they... lump you in with me now?"

"They're not bad people, Ner'. Not normally anyway. It's just that Arawendë, well... she's really got her heart set on this. It's making her, well, prickly."

"'Set on this'. You mean the party? Or do you mean marrying Prince Fëanor?"

Lissiel gave a mirthless laugh. "The second. She really thinks she's going to bowl him over. Fairytale stuff."

"Has she even met him?"

"So she says. I have my doubts, unless it was 'met him' in the sense of him kissing her hand in a receiving line next to 50 other women. They do that sort of thing at the Palace all the time, I gather."

"So why does Arawendë think she stands more of a chance than those other 50 women? Or all the rest of you, er, us?"

"Because she's a Vanya. Queen Indis married the King, and she thinks that sets a precedent for the men of the House of Finwë to marry ladies of the Vanyar."

"Mm-hmm." said Nerdanel meaningfully. She wasn't privy to all the secrets of the royal household - well, she wasn't privy to _any_ of them, to be truthful. But even out in the city rumours circulated that Prince Fëanor didn't exactly see eye-to-eye with his father's new wife.

Lissiel rolled her eyes and grinned. Clearly she'd heard the same rumours, and could guess what the Prince's reaction would be to the suggestion that he emulate his father by deliberately seeking a wife from the First Kindred of the Eldar. Nerdanel took the opportunity - the other two were safely far behind, out of earshot - to tell Lissiel her previous idea that if Fëanor did turn out to be the sort of man who'd want to marry Arawendë, the only fitting punishment was, well, to be married to Arawendë.

Lissiel's peal of laughter was loud enough that Arawendë and Vilyië looked up in annoyance to see what was so funny; but they were too far behind to hear, so were forced to go back to their own conversation. Nerdanel put them firmly out of her mind. She had the invitation stored safely in a pocket - her clothes actually had pockets, lots of them, which was one reason she preferred them to the decorative yet impractical gowns her companions were wearing - so she could get into the palace without waiting for Arawendë to present her credentials.

"What did you really mean, back then?" asked Lissiel, breaking into her train of thoughts. "About me and the Prince, I meant. Were you really just generalising, or do you actually Know something?"

"Well, a bit of both, really. I don't know, but there are some things I can work out. And I honestly do think it isn't just random that you've been invited."

"Well come on then! Don't keep me in suspense. I didn't realise you were an expert on Palace politics."

"I'm not. But you remember what you told me about how Arawendë got her hands on four invitations to the party?"

"Of course. Her mother gave them to her, told her to share them out among her girl friends."

"Which included you by name, didn't it?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. I've met Arawendë's mother a few times, she knows me. I'm sure it was just random, like 'Give them to your friends, you know, like Lissiel'".

"Mm-hmm. And where did Arawendë's mother get the invitations?"

"Well, she's a lady-in-waiting. She attends on the Queen personally. I suppose that Her Majesty..."

"Yes? She got them from the Queen."

"I suppose she must have. So?"

"So you don't think it's odd that Queen Indis would quietly, via a servant, arrange to give out invitations to her stepson's party to four random young women she's never met?"

"Um. When you put it like that, it does seem odd. I mean, Arawendë is sort-of nobility, if you squint, and Viliyië's mother was something important over in Alqualondë; but me? My parents are architects. And you're a blacksmith's daughter! Like you said, we're random women." She grinned at the notion, but Nerdanel shook her head.

"No, we're not random. We've got one thing in common."

Lissiel cocked an eyebrow.

"We're all single, and roughly Prince Fëanor's age. I do believe that Queen Indis is doing some discreet match-making — and she's willing to cast her net wider than I'd ever have given her credit for."

Lissiel quirked a smile. "Just because they're both Vanyar doesn't mean the Queen has to be like Arawendë..."

 

oo000oo

 

It was the Mingling of the Lights, as Laurelin's warm golden glow gave way to the cool radiance of Telperion. The party was beginning.

Outside in the Great Square below the Mindon Eldaliéva, a large crowd was gathered. They were there to see the great and good of Tirion arriving at the King's House: to watch the pageantry, gossip about who arrived with whom, admire the outfits, and generally have a good time. More practically, they were also there to enjoy the trestle tables groaning under the weight of free food and drink that King Finwë had ordered set up in the square, at his personal expense, to allow the people to join in his son's birthday celebration.

Nerdanel had sidled up to the velvet rope barrier as inconspicuously as possible, suddenly a bundle of nerves despite her earlier show of confidence. People were going to see her as she went in! They'd wonder who she was, how she'd managed to get an invitation. They'd almost certainly comment on her clothes. She felt frumpy and out of place. She wondered if she should just slip off, give Lissiel an excuse, join the crowds in the square instead. They would probably be more enjoyable company than the people inside the palace.

Lissiel's hand slipped into her own. Nerdanel thought that maybe her friend had detected her hesitation and was trying to reassure her - or maybe pinning her so she couldn't run away? But then Nerdanel looked around at Lissiel's face, and saw her pale profile and the way she was biting her lip, and she realised. Lissiel was nervous too. In fact, she looked frankly terrified. It made Nerdanel feel brave by comparison.

Together, they walked up to the line of guards and the impressively-dressed royal servant. The guards were holding their staffs of office - not that anyone believed there was any threat to the King or his household here beyond the Western Seas, but this was a tradition that dated back to the Great Journey. Tradition meant a lot to the Eldar.

Lissiel took her invitation out of her handbag. Nerdanel hastily fished into her pocket for hers. She'd put it between two sheets of stiff card to prevent it getting crumpled or dog-eared, and in her nervous state she started to hand the cardboard to the attendant before realising and frantically switching it for the actual invitation. She almost dropped it as she extended it towards his hand.

The servant gave no sign of noticing her confusion, his expression blank and imperturbable. He merely read the elegant writing on the card, checked the seal, then handed it back to her with a bow. "Welcome, Lady Nerdanel."

'Lady'? She'd never been called that before. She wondered if she should curtsey, or offer her hand to be kissed, or something, but she contented herself with a smile and a 'Thank you'. The attendant's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners in response; she guessed that was the Royal Palace Servant way of smiling back.

Lissiel was far more demonstrative; she was grinning from ear to ear. Sorry, that is to say _Lady_ Lissiel: she'd been given the same honour, and she clearly loved it. Nerdanel gave her a matching smile, and together they climbed the vast white staircase and passed through the wide-open main doors of the royal palace.

 

  oo000oo

 

The King's House was as magnificent inside as she'd expected; but Nerdanel had little time to appreciate its splendour. Some other time, maybe, she'd have been interested in exploring it with Lissiel. Her friend was an architects' daughter, after all, and when she was in the mood could point out all sorts of technical details about the construction that Nerdanel found fascinating. More fascinating than Lissiel did, truth be told - her friend had no desire to follow in her parents' footsteps, and rather thought she'd prefer a career working with people. Some kind of organisational or management job. Given how she'd motivated Nerdanel herself to come this evening - and for that matter, how she'd manoeuvred Arawendë into giving her the invitation - Nerdanel suspected that she might actually turn out to be very good at such a profession, at least once she was a little older and more confident about her own judgement.                                

For now, though, they had a party to attend. The room was full of people, all dressed in finery like a flock of exotic birds, and chattering like them too. The noise was overwhelming. There was music too, in the background. The two young women slipped through the crowd with some difficulty until they found the ballroom, where the dancefloor was currently empty. The band - no, orchestra: normal parties had bands, kings had something rather more splendid - was sitting there waiting its moment, but four of the musicians were playing some incidental music. This room, ironically, was actually a little quieter than the main hall, as the people gathered along the sides were listening to the music rather than conducting their own conversations.

Lissiel leaned over to whisper in Nerdanel's ear, "Do you think we ought to find King Finwë, or the Prince, to pay our respects?"

Nerdanel shrugged. Then concentrating very hard, she closed her eyes and formed an image of her friend in her mind. Then to the image she said, "We probably should, but I wouldn't know where to start looking."

Beside her, she felt Lissiel jerk in surprise. Then faint and scratchy, a response seemed to flicker through her thoughts. It said, as far as she could make out, "Ooh, look at you, you show-off" and there was a mental picture - faint and blurred, like watercolours in the rain - of Lissiel sticking out her tongue.

Nerdanel giggled. She opened her eyes again and looked around at Lissiel, who was standing with a deep scowl of concentration on her face as she struggled to transmit the image. Nerdanel took pity on her, and said in her mind, "Let's go outside", and transmitted a picture of a garden. Lissiel was keen to agree.

The wide balcony overlooking the private royal gardens was almost as crowded as inside, as people watched the Mingling of the Lights - but only almost. The two women made their way over to a free spot between two marble planters overflowing with roses, and Lissiel nudged Nerdanel with her elbow.

"You're getting really good at _osanwë_. I could hear you almost as sharply as if you were really talking to me!"

"Thanks. You weren't too bad yourself either. I got the picture, anyway. Complete with tongue."

Lissiel chuckled. "It'll be centuries before I'm as good at it as you already are. What's the secret? Is it just inborn talent, or is it all those private lessons you get from Lord Aulë and his Maiar? They use _osanwë_ all the time, don't they?"

"When they're just making friendly conversation they use voices, but yes, for the in-depth teaching they generally switch to mindspeech. I've had a lot of practice. But Lissiel, they're not 'private' lessons. Lord Aulë welcomes anyone who wants to learn from him, you know that. He just tends to be a little, well, impatient with people who can't keep up, or who don't contribute their own ideas..."

"Which rules me out. I'm not good with my hands like you are, or your father is."

"That doesn't mean you're not talented. Maybe one of the other Valar will take you as a pupil; have you ever considered it?"

"Do you think they'd have me? I mean, I'm not really good at anything except talking to people."

"Which is a talent! Maybe Lord Irmo or Lady Nienna could teach you. Or even Lord Manwë—"

"You're kidding."

"Why not? You're good at organising people, and who better to help you get better at that than the Elder King himself?"

"Um." There was a thoughtful expression on Lissiel's face. "I'm sure he's far too busy. And it's not like I'm royal or even noble..."

"You won't know until you try." Nerdanel suddenly grinned. "And anyway, if you do marry Prince Fëanor you'll become royal enough for anybody!"

Lissiel laughed. "Yeah, right. Speaking of him, though, I still think we should try and track him down and say 'Thank you for inviting us'. Or maybe from what you said, it's Queen Indis we should be thanking?"

Nerdanel smiled wryly. "Yeah, that could be awkward. Going up to the Prince and saying, "Hey, hi there! Thanks for the invite!" and he replies, 'Uh, who are you? Guards! Intruders!' But maybe there'll be some kind of formal presentation later in the evening?"

"Maybe. I ought to ask Arawendë, she's sure to know the procedure. For that matter, I should probably track her down anyway, they were behind us in the queue outside but she'll be somewhere in the building by now."

"Um, right. Okay."

Lissiel gave her an understanding smile. "While I'm doing that, why don't you scout out the dining hall, see what sort of food they're going to give us? Or perhaps have a look in the palace galleries. No need for us both to go. I'll see you around later?"

"Yes! Okay." Nerdanel couldn't hide her relief at not having to face Arawendë again; but her conscience did make her add, "If you're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. And don’t worry, it's not like we'll lose each other, the palace isn't _that_ big." She started to walk off, then looked back  and gave her friend a parting shot. "Just don't go marrying the Prince yourself or anything, before I get back!"

"Yeah, right. I don't think there's much danger of _that_ ," laughed Nerdanel.

 

  oo000oo

 

Now she was alone, Nerdanel used the opportunity to have a poke around and satisfy her curiosity. The palace might well be small compared to, say, the Pastures of Yavanna or the beaches of the Bay of Eldamar - both of which she'd hiked around in her time - but it was still one of the largest Elf-built structures she'd ever seen, and full of intriguing nooks and corners.

Of course it was also full of people - probably at least a thousand guests, if she was any judge, not counting the regular staff and courtiers - and exploring meant weaving her way through gaps in the crowds. She recognised a few people; while this was hardly her usual social circle, her sculpture was starting to make a name for itself in Tirion, and several high-ranking households had already commissioned work from her despite her youth. She smiled, waved, nodded a greeting, but didn't stop to chat; she didn't like to interrupt.

She did try and keep a look out for her hosts - it would be easier, she thought, if the King and Queen were sitting on big thrones with their children around them, visible to all. But this was officially a 'family' occasion rather than a 'state' one, which meant that informality was the order of the day.

As if a household which employed several hundred servants and courtiers - many of them high-ranking nobles in their own right - could ever do anything 'informally'...

It was starting to feel rather oppressive, in fact. People everywhere, blocking the way, talking in too-loud voices. Hundreds of people she didn't know, talking about things she wasn't interested in. In fact, she had no real idea what she was supposed to be doing here. After some fruitless wandering, Nerdanel found herself standing next to a table laden with filled glasses of wine. At least she knew what to do with one of those.

It didn't calm her nerves as she'd hoped. She still felt out of place and unsettled... but now she needed the bathroom as well. She was fairly sure that was down to anxiety, not the single glass of wine she'd drunk, but hey. At least it gave her a (temporary) objective, and a destination to be going to instead of just wandering aimlessly.

Of course, a large, prominent sign pointing the way to the Ladies was too much to hope for in a royal palace. That would be frightfully gauche, my dears. Instead Nerdanel looked around until she spotted a discreet archway at the back of the room, with a few people emerging from it, and took a chance.

Five minutes later, as she wandered down a deserted corridor lined with firmly-closed doors, she reluctantly came to the conclusion she'd chosen wrongly. Her feet made no sound in the thick carpet, and the light from the lanterns glinted off gilded scrollwork on the walls. It was becoming increasingly clear to her that she wasn't supposed to be here.

Far in the distance, she heard the sound of trumpets, loud enough to penetrate even to this quiet and secluded passageway. Something must be happening! Well, she would just have to hope it would still be happening when she got back.

There was nobody in sight to ask for directions - and Nerdanel wondered nervously if that was a bad thing or a good thing. If she was trespassing, being caught might get her thrown out of the palace in disgrace. Maybe she should retrace her steps and start again?

She had turned left here before, hadn't she? Those steps didn't look familiar.

This corridor was definitely too long. And she didn't remember seeing that painting before.

A faint sound made her freeze in panic, and look around desperately for a place to hide. She was going to be caught, they'd drag her away in chains...

She took a deep breath. She could handle this. She'd faced down wild animals in the tangled forests, personally negotiated the sale of a three-metre tall marble statue of Justice to the Royal Law Court in Tirion, and she'd even _asked Lord Mandos to pose for it_ , an act of courage that - had she but known it, which she didn't - made a nine-day sensation among the Valar themselves.               

(Námo the Judge had consented to the use of his likeness; but rather than posing, he had impressed an image of himself in Nerdanel's mind so vividly that she could carve the statue entirely from memory. She could still recall the memory even now, years later. She wasn't entirely sure that was a blessing.)

Standing motionless, not even breathing, she heard the sound more clearly.,. Voices from behind one of the closed doors. She could walk away, they wouldn't know she was there...

Nerdanel took her courage in both hands, drew herself up to her full height, then walked over to the door and rapped her knuckles on the gilt woodwork, then pushed it open.

Inside, three off-duty servants were sat around a wooden table, their formal livery jackets slung over their chair-backs. They were playing cards. They glanced up in mild curiosity as she looked around the door.

"Uh, sorry. I'm looking for the Ladies?"

"You've got yourself a bit turned around, miss. Which one are they using for guests, again?"

"The White Room's probably the closest."

"Fair enough. Okay, go back to the stairwell, turn right past the tapestry of Cuiviénen, down to the end of the corridor, then left. Got that?"

"Yes, I think so. Thanks, um, sorry to disturb you. Thanks."

"No problem, miss."

Nerdanel closed the door again and staggered down the corridor in the indicated direction, feeling an overwhelming sensation of mingled relief, embarrassment and above all, anti-climax.

Following the route she'd been given, she found the turning where she'd gone wrong, and quickly found herself in front of yet another door - but this one had a discreet card propped next to it announcing its purpose in elegant hand-written calligraphy. Subtle, unobtrusive, and far to easy to overlook. 

Afterwards, as Nerdanel made her way back into the main hall, she encountered a flow of other people coming in the opposite direction. Something important had obviously just finished. She had a fair idea what it probably was... she'd just missed her opportunity to be formally presented to her hosts, and the birthday boy. Oops. Oh well.

  oo000oo

 

As she came back into the room, it seemed more crowded than ever. She negotiated the steps up to the balcony that ran the length of one wall, and fought her way through the throng to the edge. The balustrade was made from wrought metal - she studied it for a moment with professional interest, then leaned over and took in the panorama of the hall below her.

At first it seemed chaotic, without any structure; but as she looked with an artist's eye she began to make out the patterns. Clusters of people, in large groups and small groups. Flows of movement, feeding in from the doors that led to other rooms of the palace, flowing around and between the stationary people. Some of those fixed points were themselves in flux, as people attached themselves to the fringes of the larger crowds then fell away again, or groups split and merged.

One of the largest fixed points in the sea of movement shone golden in the lamplight, in sharp contrast to the darker colours around them. Nerdanel took a closer look, and nodded in recognition. A dozen tall blonde women standing in a group burned like a fruit of Laurelin on a blanket of dark-haired Noldor. Queen Indis and her ladies-in-waiting had arrived at the party, then. The ebb and flow around them would be partygoers paying their respects or saying a polite word to their hostess. It occurred to Nerdanel that she should probably join them - if it wasn't too late, and she'd missed her chance.

There was another flash of blond hair, closer, standing under one of the pillars of the balcony. If she moved that way a little, Nerdanel could hear what she was saying...

It was Arawendë, sure enough; Nerdanel recognised her voice. But the person she was talking to wasn't Vilyië - it was Lissiel. An excited and happy Lissiel, from the tone of her voice. Nerdanel felt an unexpected pang of jealousy.

Shamelessly, she eavesdropped on their conversation - then had to clap her hand over her mouth to hide a gasp of surprise. Lissiel had spoken to Prince Fëanor. Actually and for real. Personally, a one-to-one conversation. And he'd smiled at her. Lissiel was bubbling over with glee as she recounted the details to Arawendë.

Arawendë was making all the appropriate comments - "No! Really?" and "What did he say?" and "You're so lucky!" But perhaps because Nerdanel's ears were attuned to the subtleties - or perhaps, let's be fair here, because she cordially disliked Arawendë and was ready to believe the worst about her - she could detect a certain amount of gritted teeth about the Vanya woman's replies. A certain amount of seething, hateful jealousy.

Nerdanel suddenly felt very tired. She'd never really understood what Lissiel saw in Arawendë, but she'd been willing to accept that they were friends, that they enjoyed each other's company. But now? Now it seemed like it was all shallow, all based on nothing at all. It was depressing.

And apparently the Prince had arrived at the party, was circulating among the guests. Maybe she'd get a chance to speak to him herself. Maybe Arawendë would refuse to speak to her ever again if she did.

You know what they say about clouds and silver linings...

 

  oo000oo

 

It was later in the evening. Telperion's cool light illuminated a festive crowd that showed no signs of slowing down. Nerdanel, however, was flagging.

She hadn't spoken to the Prince, or the King, or the Queen. She'd approached the group around Queen Indis, close enough to hear her voice, but lost her nerve and moved away again. She'd talked to Vilyië briefly, a few forced words of politeness before both of them found an excuse to move on. Once Lissiel had rushed up and grabbed her, all bubbly and excited, saying "Isn't this fun! I'll talk to you later!" before vanishing again. She'd avoided Arawendë altogether. There'd been a few other conversations with groups of strangers; polite enquiries and casual chit-chat. She didn’t want to seem anti-social, after all.

At length she'd found a quieter room, where a series of small tables had been set up for people to sit at, maybe enjoy a drink or a light snack, engage in more private conversations, or just chill out and relax. More intriguingly, though, there was a series of low, waist-high columns of stone down the centre of the room - and featured individually on each of them was a small sculpture or artwork.

Nerdanel wasn't sure if they were always displayed like this, or if they'd been put out specially for the party. Maybe King Finwë particularly wanted his guests to see them, for some reason. Nerdanel was happy to oblige. This was, as they say, relevant to her interests.

She first walked slowly the length of the room, taking an unhurried look at each sculpture in turn to get an overall feel for them. There was no common theme that she could make out: - several humanoid sculptures (Elves or Ainur), one of a spray of roses, another of a cat nursing a kitten. She grimaced at the last one; that was a little too over-sentimental for her own taste.

The flowers were very impressive, though. She didn't often do still-lifes herself, but she could appreciate the technical skill needed to carve the delicate stems and thorns and petals without cracking the stone. In fact, she thought, that was a subject that she'd have done as a bronze casting rather than marble. Carving the roses out of stone seemed almost ostentatious; a way of announcing to the world, "Hey, I'm a master sculptor, look at me!" She shook her head. To her mind, art was its own reward, not a medium for advertising your genius. Though admittedly, it was nice when people appreciated your work...

There were no abstract works; everything was a life study, done with great precision. Despite the lack of a theme to the collection, there was certainly a commonality between them. The same artist, she thought, or perhaps students of the same teacher.

She returned to the first sculpture and studied it more closely. It was a female figure with waves washing around her feet — whether it was meant to be Uinen, or a lesser Maia of the sea, or just an Elf-woman going for a paddle, wasn't clear. She was naked, but her long hair was coyly arranged to cover the essential bits.

From the front at least. As Nerdanel walked in a circle around the plinth, she saw that the sculptor had spent quite a lot of care and attention in carving the statuette's bare bottom. She rolled her eyes.

Not, she admitted to herself, that she hadn't enjoyed sculpting the occasional well-chiselled (hah!) male torso in her time. She wasn't in a position to judge. And anyway, there was nothing to be ashamed of in the nude Elven figure, and physical beauty was there to be admired, wasn't it? But still, she reckoned that she had a pretty good idea of the likely gender, and possibly the age group, of the artist who made this statue.

She bent down to study the base of the statuette, with its waves frozen in white marble. There were three small letters chiselled carefully into the stone - **CFF**. She considered them for a moment, then smiled wrily. She might have known. From everything she'd heard of him this was exactly the sort of thing Curufinwë Fëanáro, Finwë's son, would make.

 _'But this means he's an artist! Like you!'_ said a tiny voice in the back of her mind. She pushed it aside sternly. An ostentatious, _conceited_ artist who makes lascivious statues of naked women, she scolded her subconscious. And worse still, statues of _kittens_. Clearly beyond help.

She straightened and took a look around the room. Just people minding their own business, a sanctuary of quiet in the hubbub of the royal party. She turned her attention back to the statuette and forced herself deliberately to examine it with the critical, neutral eye of a professional artist. Forget who made it, forget his choice of subject material; just how good is it from a technical point of view?

She spent some time on considering the matter - Lissiel could never understand how Nerdanel could spend so much time staring at one single work of art without getting bored, not understanding how each tiny shift of perspective brought a new insight. Her conclusion, reluctant though it was, was that the artist who carved this was highly skilled. A master, in fact. But - she thought this with no small degree of smugness, which left her feeling rather shocked at herself - it wasn't _quite_ as good as her own work. 

It was difficult to say why not. Certainly there were no technical flaws in the carving. But there was something just indefinably off about it. Something that nagged at her artistic senses. She remembered a similar feeling from her own half-finished work back in her studio. What was it?

She bent down to take a closer look at the statuette, putting her head at its eye level, then straightened again.

Then it hit her. Of _course!_

  oo000oo

 

 "Hey, I see you're looking at that statuette. Do you like it?"

The voice came from behind her, and made her jump. A man's voice. She felt a flash of irritation. She'd just had the most important idea ever, something that could change the whole way she made her art, and now some guy was interrupting her to make polite conversation?

"Mmm", she said, in as non-committal way as possible. Hopefully he'd get the hint and leave.

"That was a very non-committal 'mmm' sound", he replied.

Nerdanel almost screamed at how accurately he'd read her. Yes of course it was, it was meant to be, she wanted to say to him. Congratulations, you read my mind! But that little voice inside her was saying, _Hey, that was pretty good, you know? He's sharp. And also sarcastic, and a lot more honest than most everybody else you've spoken to today._

Instead she settled on a much more neutral, "Yes, well, it's not bad, I suppose" as she turned to face him.

He was a young man, fashionably and expensively dressed. Long black hair with that 'slightly-tousled' look that took a stylist an hour to achieve (so Lissiel told her, anyway. Nerdanel kept her own hair cropped short for convenience.) He was smiling politely at her. He was alone; Nerdanel didn't know why he would have come to this out-of-the-way room. He looked more the sort to be out on the dancefloor, surrounded by hordes of admirers. He was... well, let's just say he looked the type to _have_ hordes of admirers.

Nerdanel suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to sculpt a statue of him. It would be magnificent. It would be _glorious_.

The little voice inside her told her to get a grip on herself and not scare the poor guy off. He was being perfectly friendly. Sociable, even. _In fact_ , the voice told her, _don't get your hopes up too far, don't jump to conclusions, but there might just possibly be a small chance that he's chatting you up. Yes, I know that doesn't happen very often. Are you interested?_

He was looking at her. As their eyes met Nerdanel's stomach gave a lurch. There was such an _intensity_ in his gaze. She...

She'd totally blanked what he just said to her, hadn't she? Get a grip, woman.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

_Oh smooth, Nerdanel. Tell him you've not been paying attention to him, why don't you?_

"I asked if you knew who made the statue. Normally... well, let's just say I'm curious."

Nerdanel's flustered state suddenly flared into irritation. Of course she knew who made the statue. His name was on the base. She told him that, in as many words. She'd just about had enough of social climbers, and mindless flattery, and palace politics, and bitchy so-called friends, and people who thought that Prince Fëanor could walk on water or fly to the stars just because he carved a few statues. Not even very good statues.

The poor man looked quite taken aback. He was probably sorry he ever came over to talk to her. The voice inside her was frantically waving its hands and telling her to slow down, but Nerdanel's blood was up now. Apparently other people had said good things about the statues, he was saying - or trying to say, since she wasn't really letting him get a word in edgeways.

Of course other people praised the statues. What else were they going to say? Prince Fëanor was the king's eldest son, the Crown Prince of the Noldor, and the most eligible bachelor in Tirion. It was obvious that anyone praising him or the works of his hands was likely to have ulterior motives!

She finally wound down, breathless. The man was staring at her, a look of pure shock in his eyes.

Nerdanel began to feel much the same way herself. What was wrong with her? She never spoke like that, not in public. Not to strangers. She'd probably offended him mortally, Not to mention that her comments about the Prince had quite possibly been treasonous. Maybe she should leave now. While she still could.

"Do you really think it's not that good?"

His words were challenging, incredulous... but Nerdanel's hyper-alert senses detected something beyond that. A touch of uncertainty? A need for reassurance? She doubted he'd admit it to her, but something inside her softened nevertheless.

"I didn't mean it like that. Technically, it's flawless."

He met her eyes, and once again she felt that strange physical reaction inside her as their gazes linked. He raised an eyebrow, and she knew he'd sensed the unspoken 'but' in her last sentence.

Something compelled her to be honest with him. And as she spoke she felt the rightness within her, because this was the secret she'd perceived that gave her the key to her own art.

"It's the proportions. They're all wrong."

"No they're not! They're perfect!"

"Yes, and that's why they're wrong!"

He was being very defensive about the statuette, Nerdanel thought. A nasty suspicion as to the reason why was lurking in the back of her mind... but it was much too horrible to contemplate, given the long fiery rant she'd just aimed in his direction about Prince Fëanor and his circle of flatterers. Also the very idea was ridiculous and impossible. He was obviously just some random stranger with an interest in art.

He was protesting now, complaining that the proportions couldn't be wrong, they were modelled exactly on life. _How exactly would he know that?_  wondered Nerdanel. But it was too late to reconsider - and anyway, she had to explain her idea to him. About the proportions, and why they could be right and yet wrong.

It was about the perspective. The angle from which you looked at something changed the way it appeared to you. Stretched and thin, or squat and foreshortened. It was an optical illusion. But it didn't have to be. This was the idea that made her heart pound in her chest, her eyes glow with excitement as it unfolded within her mind. Art didn't have to follow life strictly one-for-one. Art was representational, and that meant you could _change_ it. Create the angles and proportions the way the viewer would _expect_ to see them in her mind, instead of the way they'd appear by nature. You could make art that looked more realistic than nature itself!

She was working it out in her own head as she spoke, fumbling each idea into place, trying to understand how they fitted together. She knew she was right, and he was letting her speak. In fact, he had a very odd expression on his face, as he watched her pace up and down, waving her hands as she struggled to express the concepts that were bubbling up inside her. He seemed rapt, and his eyes... his eyes were shining.

He even seemed to understand what she was saying, which was pretty much a first in her experience. Although... understanding wasn't the same as agreeing. Far from it.

"But that's ridiculous! Are you saying you should make it wrong _deliberately_?"

 

  oo000oo

 

Nerdanel was used to people rejecting her ideas in scorn, usually because they hadn't really understood them and weren't interested enough to listen to her explanation. But this was different. He _did_ understand her, and he even seemed interested. She'd have to convince him through reason and rational argument. Well, that was intimidating. And exhilarating. And maybe a few other things, when his eyes locked with hers and seemed to burn right into her...

 She did her best, honestly she did. Their argument was like a rushing stream, leaping from rock to rock down a mountainside, every point opposed immediately by a counter-point, jumping from one challenge to another, ideas spinning off at tangents that were entirely related to the main argument even if they seemed not to be at first. It was exhausting, it was exciting, it made Nerdanel's heart pound and her breath come faster as she heard the passion in his voice, in his words that countered all her arguments...

He was cleverer than her. The realisation came as a shock, but she couldn't deny it. He understood her arguments immediately; he usually (but not always) had a counter-point ready to go straight away. She, on the other hand, often didn’t quite grasp what he was saying at first, had to poke his words around in her mind a little before she could reply - though at least she always had a reply eventually.

Oddly, this discovery didn't upset her. She wasn't particularly arrogant, she thought. She'd never imagined she was the World's Most Intelligent Elf. For another thing, she'd spoken to several of the Valar, and she knew nobody incarnate could ever approach their vast, deep wisdom. But even so... she was used to being the quickest on the uptake of all her friends. The one who understood things faster. Usually, the one who had to explain them to the others, often several times in increasingly simplified language. She had enough ego that it felt a little bruising to be on the other side for once. But it also felt... in a peculiar way, it felt liberating.

It was like a horse which lives its whole life harnessed to a cart, plodding slowly through the streets of the city... but one day, its harness is released and it sees the immortal horses of Lord Oromë galloping across the plain. It runs to join them, wild and free, all burdens cast off, free to run as fast as it can, not having to look back to see what it is leaving behind, not worrying about who it is outpacing. No, it might not be able to keep up with them forever - but for a time, a mortal horse has run side-by-side with the Wild Hunt.

She blushed, embarrassed at her thoughts. He looked at her and shook his head.

"You're crazy".

He could out-talk her, she'd discovered that. But he was still wrong, and she was right. All his fancy arguing couldn't change that, and she wasn't about to let herself be turned around by mere wordplay and clever rhetorical tricks. She grinned at him.

"And you're a dumbass."

That took him aback. Nerdanel almost giggled aloud, until she hushed herself. Maybe she should have tried playground insults from the start, rather than reasoned debate.

He was practically spluttering. Apparently nobody had ever - _ever_ \- called him that before. Nerdanel could believe it, actually. The man was quite clearly some sort of high-level genius - but she'd caught him out a few times, and he'd said some things that she'd known were just plain wrong, and she'd told him so. He wasn't perfect.

It was obvious, though, that he wasn't used to being called out on that. He clearly needed someone in his life who was able to call him a dumbass from time to time. Nerdanel could...

Nerdanel could be astonished at her own presumption and audacity, actually. She didn't even know his name yet and she was wondering how to make herself part of his life! Ridiculous.

His eyes were so intense. He was looking at her again, staring at her, in fact. And an expression of amazement was spreading slowly across his face.

"Well, I'll be— You're right."

_What? Right about what? Right that I should be a part of his life? No! I didn't mean... I'm not ready..._

"I think you just may be actually right about perspective, after all."

_Oh, that. Stupid perspective. Stupid meaningless argument. His eyes..._

His eyes were glowing again, like his innermost spirit was on fire as he gazed at her in wonder.

"I was wrong."

Nerdanel quirked a smile. Somewhere inside her, that little voice was jumping up and down and flailing incoherently and trying to call her attention to what she'd just seen, but she didn't care. She knew - forget intuition or foresight or any of that supernatural stuff, she knew because she was actually quite clever and good at reading people, that something hugely, massively, incredibly significant had just happened.

She didn't think this man had ever uttered the words "I was wrong" before in his entire life. And he'd said it to her.

She felt like singing. Instead she said in a tone that was carefully calculated to sound casual, "Am I allowed to look smug now?"

He grinned at her. He said in the driest possible voice, "You were right about the statuette, not the 'dumbass' thing." Nerdanel giggled, she couldn't help it. And he was laughing too, laughing along with her. Together.

 

  oo000oo

 

Nerdanel took a deep breath, then smiled at him. He gave her a conspiratorial, shared-knowledge smile back. Behind him, she became aware that quite a few people in the room had stopped what they were doing to watch them. Normally this would have embarrassed her, but he didn't seem to mind, so she didn't let it affect her either.

He leaned over to look at the statuette, muttering the words, "Perspective. It's about perspective" under his breath. Then he straightened and looked at Nerdanel with deep respect in his (glorious!) eyes.

"You're absolutely right. There are as many perspectives on something as there are viewers of it..."

"No, there are more," interjected Nerdanel. He frowned - he wasn't someone who was used to being interrupted, she guessed. But she didn't let herself be deterred, and pressed on: "Each viewer can see things from multiple perspectives themselves. It depends on what they bring to it–"

"Of course! Their expectations, their preferences, their—"

"I was thinking of them standing at different viewing points, actually. But you're right! Their memories of similar things they've seen would also influence how they approach the new thing—"

"Yes! Like how people see what they expect to see, instead of looking at the reality—"

On they went, taking each other's ideas and adding to them, passing them back and forward, even completing each other's sentences occasionally.  His earlier flash of surprise was long gone; he was letting her speak and listening to her with almost frightening intensity. Sometimes when she was in full flow she'd catch him looking at her with the oddest expression on his face; a look she'd never seen before... at least, not being directed at _her_.

It made her feel tingly and warm inside. It made her feel she could never possibly live up to his expectations - but because she was a stubborn-headed blacksmith's daughter, she knew she was going to go ahead and do it anyway.

But now he put up his hand and fell silent for a moment. He was thinking hard: she could practically see the thoughts buzzing around him, falling into place...

"Perspective, viewpoints, viewpoints... I wonder if it would work for painting too?"

"How do you mean?" Nerdanel had tried her hand at painting a few times, but it didn't appeal to her as much as sculpture. Still, she was genuinely curious to see what he had in mind. She could see the excitement building in him as a new idea blossomed in his thoughts. It was a feeling she knew herself so well.

"Yes! I'll show you! I just need something to draw on."

He whirled away and paced down the room, Nerdanel following him. Show me? Did he bring an artist's easel and paints to the party with him? She was intrigued. By this stage she was ready to believe just about anything about him.

But she wasn't expecting him to stride over to one of the side-tables that lined the edges of the room, say, "This'll do!" and grab the white cloth that covered it - to the shock of the two highly respectable senior Elves who were sitting at it quietly sharing a bottle of wine.

Nerdanel's protest was, if anything, louder than theirs. She saw them grab their drinks and lift them up just in time for them to be not sent flying as he pulled the cloth from the table. From over his shoulder, she offered them a frantic, hand-waving apology. He didn't even notice.

She poked him hard in the ribs with her elbow. He looked at her in shocked surprise.

She nodded her head imperatively towards the couple and whispered, aghast, "You can't just do that! What will people say?!"

He looked as if that question had never occurred to him before. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. But Nerdanel wasn't done yet.

"Apologise to them! And hope they don't..."

"But I..." He paused, then smiled ruefully. "You know, you're right. Again." He turned to the two Elves and offered them an apology which, if slightly too flowery for Nerdanel's preferences, at least had the benefit of sincerity. She was listening with hyper-critical awareness, so she'd have detected if it wasn't. Certainly the couple whose drinks had been interrupted were happy to accept the apology. Almost anxious to accept it, in fact.

But that duty done, he put them from his mind and unfolded the cloth in the air with a crack, then laid it down on the floor. He patted the pockets of his robes, clearly looking for something.

Nerdanel reached into her own pockets and brought out a stick of charcoal she always kept there for making quick sketches when inspiration struck. He took it with thanks, then looked at her almost shyly and said, "You too, huh?"

Then he knelt on the ground and started drawing on the white cloth with rapid, sweeping strokes. No, thought Nerdanel, _not_ me too. I draw in a sketchpad, or sometimes on a piece of scrap canvas. I do NOT grab one of the King's own tablecloths out from under the glasses of people using it, spread it out on the floor of the Royal Palace and start drawing on it! This man was... he was... unbelievable. That was the only word for it.

She should probably leave now, before he got her into even more trouble.

He turned towards her, excited, wanting to explain his idea to her. Bubbling over with passion and enthusiasm. She felt herself being caught up in it, swept away in the rushing current. She thought perhaps she should try to resist; that if she ever let go of the riverbank, she'd be lost in it. lost In him.

He was pointing to the lines he'd drawn, explaining about perspective, about the new insight her ideas had given him. He said, "You know how everyone says parallel lines never meet—"

"Well, that's pretty much the definition of them."

"Yes, but if you look at them stretching to the horizon  - you know, like the lines of trees either side of the road to Valmar, then it seems like they do."

"Yes! You've noticed that too? Nobody ever believed me when I said it!"

"I know! People don't believe their own eyes sometimes. But what if we do like you said, except in the painting we draw parallel lines converging towards each other?"

"How do you mean—Oh! Yes! Yes, I see what you..."

 

Nerdanel let go and let herself be swept away.

 

  oo000oo

 

There was a smash of glass echoing loud through the room. The two of them had been kneeling so close together, their heads almost touching as they worked out a new theory of art on the King's white tablecloth, that it was actually quite hard for them both to spin around to see what had caused it. They almost bumped their heads together, which made them both laugh.

Arawendë wasn't laughing. She was staring at the two of them in baffled anger and shock, the wineglass that had slipped from her fingers lying shattered around her feet. Then she turned and fled from the room.

"What was _that_ all about?" asked her companion.

Nerdanel just shrugged, and turned back to the cloth. "Dunno. Listen, I think maybe we need two of these vanishing points, at opposite sides of the eyeline?"

 


End file.
